


And Crowley Smiled

by phocion



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural, Supernatural/Good Omens Crossover - Fandom
Genre: GOCrowley minus Aziraphale equals SPNCrowley, SPN Season 8 Finale Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phocion/pseuds/phocion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I, too, have lost someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Crowley Smiled

It began, and ended, with the Metatron.

They'd never gotten on, Metatron and Aziraphale, mostly because the Metatron was a colossal dick. When the Apocawasn't had blown over, Crowley and Aziraphale had decided to lay low, in spite of the Antichrist's apparent assurances that their role in subverting the infernal Plan had been swept under the Heavenly rug. 

They moved to a little cottage by the sea on the west coast of England (it had nearly been Wales, but Aziraphale insisted they keep some dignity). They went on with their usual wiling and thwarting, on a significantly smaller scale, and Crowley was shocked, horrified (and secretly delighted) by how comfortable it all was.

He went out to fetch a bottle of wine he'd back ordered from Portugal. He'd gone through the proper, human channels for this one, knowing his angel would appreciate it all the more. A 1775 Cabernet Sauvignon which had laid in the bottom of the ocean and was still, by all accounts, consumable. 

When he returned to their cottage, his first thought was how normal it all seemed. Which was odd, considering the giant, gaping, flaming hole in the roof. Crowley walked through the door, which creaked on warped hinges. He set the bottle on the crumbling remains of their table (transplanted from the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop). He went to the den, where he knew the angel would be.

Crowley had to smile. 

Even in death, Aziraphale looked more annoyed than frightened. His body had been bloodied, but this was no mere inconvenient discorporation. Crowley knew that from the blast of the wings into the carpet.

Crowley knelt beside him, pushed a matted golden curl away from that pudgy face. He adjusted the crooked glasses on the angel's nose. He let his long fingers slide gently to close the angel's eyelids. Ran his thumb across a pale, lacerated cheek.

The cottage exploded.

He was mildly alarmed to find himself back Downstairs, inconveniently discorporated by his own rage and grief. The other demons remembered him, and they hated him, but they seemed a bit fuzzy on why.

Crowley took a job in middle management to pass the time. He'd always been an excellent salesman. He'd made the Deal of a Lifetime, after all, with dear old Eve. And, of course, he excelled at things particularly when he stood by and did nothing, and before he knew it he'd been promoted to CEO of Sales, or in the characteristically archaic verbage of Hell, the King of the Crossroads.

He smiled on Deals, smiled at Crossroads. He smiled at torturings, smiled at screams. It was all a big joke. Crass, to be sure, and certainly distasteful. He expected, even as the years continued to tick by, his body count piled up, that he'd wake in that little cottage in Decidedly Not Wales, with his pudgy, annoyed angel fretting about the state of his books or some such. That this was a long nightmare that he'd snap out of and tell the angel over one-too-many glasses of wine.

The Winchester Apocalypse, however, was simply insulting. 

Heaven and Hell had decided to have another go at it. Well, Crowley would be right fucked if that were going to happen. He'd about had it with the whole ineffable setup. They couldn't let a damn thing go. The crushing numbness, the constant light-headed fog he'd drifted in for decades, was sucked into a growing chasm of rage. How dare they? How dare they?

It was time for a regime change.

Turning hell into an endless, circular queue was, he had to admit, genius. He also had to admit that he liked the power, especially when he'd finished off Hastur, and Beelzebub, and every damned being whose face reminded him of the past. This was a new sort of numbness; a frantic, laughing, manic numbness, which turned his vision red and white. He felt constantly discorporated, hovering just behind a body's eyes. He was dizzy with it, as he opened Purgatory and hunted prophets. He was mad with it.

And then, Sam Winchester had tied him to a chair to 'cure' him and turn him human. What a lark. Crowley may be the King of Hell, may be The Demon, but he'd never been human, save for in his actions. Crowley had Fallen just after Lucifer. Crowley was an Angel. Crowley was The Serpent. 

Crowley was bored, until the second hour of that charade, the Littlest Winchester, in his trial-induced delirium, started muttering to himself. Muttering about prophets. Muttering about his brother. About angels.

About a dingy, dusty, irritable angel in a weather-beaten, moth-eaten cardigan who surrounded himself with books and was decidedly out of touch with the rest of the world.

For one fleeting, beautiful moment, Crowley had hope. For the first time in decades, Crowley had hope. And then Sam Winchester breathed the name.

Metatron.

He remembered Aziraphale lying on the floor of their cottage, blank blue eyes staring into nothing. His wings seared into the wood. His weather-beaten, moth-eaten cardigan torn and bloody. His glasses askew. His cold skin under Crowley's hand.

Abaddon came at the right moment. Beating the shit out of him helped him focus, gave him the time to plan, to strategize. He saw red, his blood and his vengeance. And he planned. He wiled.

And there was no one around to thwart him. No one that could.

Tough luck for Metatron.

Heaven tore open, and the rush of burning wings and tattered grace raced to Earth, sights and sounds not seen for 6,000 years. And Crowley smiled.


End file.
